


Eye of the Beholder

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Character Study, Gen, the Watcher & the companions at the beginning of the final quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Questions, she has found, are the only constant in mortal life. Questions and hesitation and anxiety. She has been trying to remedy that for however many she could. But now, looking at the Watcher’s companions, seeing through them even though they do not notice her – or maybe even seeing them all the more clearly because of it – she thinks they do not need the soft comforting sound of her adra bells and the whisper of her thoughts. Not when they are together; she looks at each and every one of them and she can see.





	Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlienCafe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlienCafe/gifts).



> PoE Secret Santa for AlienCafe. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (Kudos to Ranna Dylin for beta-reading!)

The ruins are empty like the eyes of a Hollowborn child. Empty, but not abandoned – memories cling to every stone and every adra shard, woven in copper patterns into the walls and floors. The air smells of dust and burning torches and souls – that smell which is impossible to describe because it is no smell at all, and yet every imaginable scent at once.

Even so, that is familiar – ever since she joined them, she can sense countless souls flocking to the Watcher like moths to a pillar of fire, can feel their edges and glimpse the outlines even if she cannot really watch them. That, and being in the company – near the company – whose souls are all marked by strife and struggle, with cracks and scars carved into each. Invisible, just as she is, but plain to see for those who know how to look. She prefers it that way because it is easier to observe while remaining invisible, even less noticeable than the stray soul travelling among them – in one of them.

The elven wizard who has always been in two minds about everything – and that not counting the unwanted passenger lodged in his soul. He has learned to live with her quite easily once he stopped struggling – maybe because he could never reach agreement with himself even before that, and maybe, after all, it is not so bad to have a voice of certainty and brashness – however misguided – as opposed to hesitation, and to have someone else’s common sense alongside one’s own. Not that he would ever admit it. Maybe that is why he fell for the Leaden Key so quickly – because he is made of thin layers of secrets he keeps from himself. There is only one constant in his life – searching, looking for a worthy goal – any goal – something bigger than himself, something more certain than himself. Something more worthy. And whatever answer awaits them behind the last door they will open in this ancient temple, he will take it for his own, because one way or another it will be his answer. Something greater. Something grander. Something to make people believe instead of doubting.

That is what they are all alike in – each having their own doubts, each one seeking. Each having found a certainty, even if it is bitter, even when it is difficult. Even if they do have courage for everything else but admitting that one truth which keeps them going – that one question. Questions, she has found, are the only constant in mortal life. Questions and hesitation and anxiety. She has been trying to remedy that for however many she could. But now, looking at the Watcher’s companions, seeing through them even though they do not notice her – or maybe even seeing them all the more clearly because of it – she thinks they do not need the soft comforting sound of her adra bells and the whisper of her thoughts. Not when they are together; she looks at each and every one of them and she can see.

The Dyrwoodan farmer – soldier – drifter – wanderer – seeker – he burns like a candle in a draughty room. His flame flickers and there are times the winds of doubt almost blow it out, but still he keeps struggling, keeps trying, fights for that life burning inside him. Here, in the depths of the past that are full of both certainty and doubt, and all the more conviction for it, his fire is brighter, as if the shadows this place is casting recognized his struggle and respected it – or maybe just took pity on his soul. He can be inconsiderate sometimes, he has been to war and he has killed, but he has never, never hated, and in this ancient sanctum of Woedica, whose memory is eternal and who administers justice by vengeance, he is so different from what this place has known that it steps back and smoothes its edges. He is a lantern and a sickle, a small warm light of life and death that is a necessity but holds no malice.

The orlan druid is a dense forest of questions, with strength hiding underneath like a predator ready to pounce on its victim. Their journey brought most of them nothing but more queries, but he is used to those – and yet he never stops looking for answers, trying to tear them from life with his little sharp claws. Where the Dyrwoodan is hope, the exiled Glanfathan is fierce determination, and he is the one that would drag them to the very end, haul them through every corridor of this forsaken place, through broken adra and piles of bones, and then kick on the final door separating them from explanations until it opened. He might serve Wael now, but he has been brought up a worshipper of Galawain, and that is how he prays to his new god – by claw and teeth and thunder and the sheer force of nature.

The paladin without a deity, who has spoken to her mother-goddess and refused to acknowledge her, who did not accept flowery words for an answer. Who also refused to see the truth in it, blinded by pain and anger that flicker like flames – the very fire that keeps her going, that has guided her for her entire life, the heat and energy of struggle and constant fighting. It is not right, it is not fair, it is no way to treat a child, and a goddess of motherhood should know it, and it is no wonder being turned away like that ruffled the paladin’s feathers. But this defiance is what fuels her, what gives her soul strength to hold up others – she is godless but not faithless; she believes in her perseverance, in her ability to see and do good, to help. Had she had not faced all those obstacles, she would have never come so far. It is not right, it is not fair – but no bird can truly learn to fly until it is kicked out of its nest, and no one knows it better than a goddess who is both a bird and a mother. And because of that, the paladin does not fly – she soars, strong enough to carry them on her wings.

The aumaua scholar, so out of place among them and so much in his element among those crumbling walls. He fights with the same enthusiasm he does everything – and how much it tells about him that he has made songs his weapon of choice? He weaves the verses together and spins new threads in reality, always with a smile on his face and an amazed look in his eyes, as if he could not really believe the wonders his music brings to life. Fearless not because he does not know dread, but because he never stops looking around curiously, because there are so many little discoveries everywhere that he simply cannot focus on fear. Here, he is not laughing – it is a graveyard, after all. But he looks past the dust and bones, onto the washed-away frescoes and cracked walls, and he sees a dead civilisation. But it is not his way to mourn – he honours the past ages and their dead by marvelling at their achievements. He is able to look past death and see life, not in the way the Watcher does, but in the way accessible to all kith and yet mastered by so few. If they got lost, he would guide them – not by finding the right path, but by singing them a tune about home, so that they would find the way themselves.

And she is... invisible, just as usual. More than usual. There are traces of past decisions all over the place, and it’s like looking into a mirror that shows one’s most true reflection – and thus is more horrifying than any lies or nightmares. It is there, all around her, all of it: questions and doubts, the despair at seeing the real face of the world – is it ever real, when everyone looks at it through their eyes like through twin panes of glass, and no glass is perfect? – the deep conviction that it is not how the world is supposed to be, how the kith are supposed to be, and the determination to change it, no matter the cost to the beholder – and to everyone else as well. It is like an accusation and an explanation, an excuse and an absolution; a curse and a blessing. Everything.

She can see the traces of that man the Watcher is hunting for – of his soul – and she feels dismay and outrage, and a hint of pity. But most of all, there is fear, terror like none she has ever felt in her life. Fear born out of the awareness that she is not so very different at the core of it, that in other circumstances she might have become the same, no matter how much she wants to deny it. That she has been playing a goddess over people’s lives, making decisions for them when they haven’t asked for it, and it is her punishment – to know and understand.

And then there is the Watcher – small but standing taller than any temple, a blinding light, a torn veil, a window to another place which is visible only when the glass shatters. A light that burns away the memories, and it hurts because the tears in her mind heal too quickly, and the world changes around her because her gaze is different now.

She feels like a young girl again, a young girl with a heart full of compassion and a head full of thoughts and a soul that can bring them into existence. A hopeful young girl who wants to make the world better and make people understand and love and not fear. There is a terrible plague over Dyrwood, she remembers; that is what brought them here – they have walked a long way to end that, and to find a balm for the old scars in the Watcher’s soul. Those are good things, noble things, things a simple country midwife has never aspired to, and these ruins are a terrifying place to be in, but she looks at the Watcher and her companions and thinks they will make it.

She is repulsed by the thought of fighting – of killing – but knows that they have to. Looks at them all, and thinks that they have to because they are the only ones who can make it. Neither of them is strong enough to do that on their own - not even the Watcher - but together they are pulling and pushing each other forward, always forward, over doubts and past insecurities. She is not one of them, but near, close enough for their thoughts to brush in passing, close enough to become stronger with their strength. They will walk this road to the end and do what must be done... but whether they will emerge unscathed or with their souls in splinters is another matter altogether. She will feel for them, should it be the latter, try to soothe their pain as best she can; she would grieve for them as she always does for those hurt. But no matter how close, she is not one of them, and ultimately they will part ways - and they are not why she is here. She will walk with them and help in their fight because it is her own, too, and then go her own way. It has always been so.

And when everything is done – soon, so soon now – the souls will be free, and they will leave this dark place and go back into the light. And then she will return where she belongs, and there will be children born, healthy children with that spark in their eyes that speaks of the presence of a soul – and all will be well again.


End file.
